


Deserving

by sherlocked221



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, POV John Watson, Possessive Sherlock, Post The Sign Of Four
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-06-03 21:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19472962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked221/pseuds/sherlocked221
Summary: One night in Baker Street, Watson tells Holmes of his plans to marry Mary Morstan. Holmes has a few things to say about that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> crappy, short fluffy nonsense with the possibility for a bit of smut if people request it. I hope you guys enjoy it ;)
> 
> Also, the Brett Holmes makes me feel so emotional. There's something about Jeremy Brett and both his Watson which really strikes something in me. So if this is a bit fluffy and whatnot, I hope you can forgive me.

“Yes, Watson?”

I peered up from my writing and cast my eyes on my dearest friend. It was late one evening. I sat up at my writing desk, practically covered in notes from our latest case. My fingers were stained with ink. My writing was a mess. The light was low. It was not warm, not cold. It was an unremarkable night, and would have remained so had this conversation never began. And it may not have, as I was going back and forth in my mind, considering whether I should consult my friend on a matter that seemed incapable of escaping me.

As ever, the stoic figure of Sherlock Holmes sat upon his armchair- not in it, on it, with his knees drawn to his chest and feet on the edge of the seat- finger tips pressed together in his usual position. His eyes remained closed as he spoke. He did not even turn his head towards me.

“I didn’t say a word.” I responded to him. 

“But you have not written a word in ten minutes, and the rhythm of your breathing has changed.”

“Which means?”

Holmes grinned. He had a charming smile. And his blue eyes lit up once he’d opened them. They flashed towards me.

“That and the extremely suggestive fact that you keep looking over at me and opening your mouth indicates you wish to ask me something, something that has weighed heavy on your mind for some time, I fancy. I believed at first it might pass or oust itself, but since neither has occurred, I am giving you one opportunity: speak to me.”

I had no other option. Out with it, or let it go unspoken.

“It’s about Mary.”

“You are considering proposing to her.”

I tell you, I was not surprised by my friend’s correct assumption. He had a talent for knowing what I wanted before I even had the thought to request it. But I cannot say I was not a little shocked by the casual delivery of what was quite a life changing prospect. Even Holmes could not deny that what I was thinking of could have important repercussions should I go through with it. I could move out. I may not be able to accompany him on cases, or have the time to write them up. I half expected him to be more, for lack of a better word, possessive of me.

“It’s a silly idea.” I conceded.

“Hardly.” Holmes chuckled, letting his legs fall to the floor and his tall figure sink into the chair.

Now that answer was a surprise.

“You do not think so?”

“Not for you. I wondered when you could succumb to social norms and fall into the arms of some… handsome woman. Mary is a perfectly agreeable choice.”

Perfectly agreeable? I may have been well aware of my friend’s opinions- or lack thereof- of the ‘fairer sex’ but the comment did stir something in me. Mary was a beautiful, intelligent and wonderful woman. I felt it was a great injustice to her that he could find nothing better to say that she was ‘agreeable.’

I turned back to my writing, in something of a sulk, and stared blankly at the last few words that I had written. I had hoped that once I had aired my thoughts, I could turn my mind back to finishing the account.

I would have no such luck, as Holmes reached out and tapped me on the back. I faced him with a hurt expression.

“Forgive me if I sounded as though I was insulting the young lady. You have quite misunderstood me. “

“Have I?” I tried not to snap. It was not becoming of me, and I knew Holmes better than to take everything he said so personally.

He continued in a soft, gentle voice. One gentler than usual.

“I do not think Mary is unsuitable for you. I think all women are unsuitable.”

“You have a terrible opinion of them.” I chided him, “If you knew so well that I would find one to marry, who would you propose would be a better option?”

Holmes shook his head, closing his eyes softly for the merest of moments, then opening them again. When he again met my gaze, the smile on his face was quite genuine. His eyebrows were raised slightly, smoothing the lines of his forehead and brightening up his face. Coupled with the calming tone with which he spoke, there was a fond and gentle air about him.

I felt just a little bad.

“I just do not understand what you expect of me, Holmes.” I told him.

“You misunderstand me again, my good fellow. It is very little to do with Mary, or any women. It is about you.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You, my good man. No one will be good enough for you.”

I was, as you can imagine, quite taken aback by that proclamation. In the many years I had spent with Holmes, I’d heard the most hurtful insults and personal digs from his mouth. And I had also heard my fair share of complements, which was a great privilege and meant a great deal to me, as rarely did anyone receive acknowledgement from one of the smartest men in the world.

But none had I heard in such a manner as this one. For a moment, I was quite dumbstruck, knowing not how to reply to that.

Somehow, however, I organized my thoughts. I opened my mouth and let out a slow, unsure breath. I do not believe I had breathed for some time.

“No one?” I helplessly parroted.

“No one.” Holmes said again, “Not even me.”

“You?”

“Watson, you are a mess of questions.” He sighed. But I ask you, what did he expect me to do? I felt more lost than I did on many of his cases, attempting to follow his thought process before he had the decency to explain it to me. I could not understand what had prompted this, nor what he was really saying to me. I confess myself at such a loss and so struck by the comment that I dropped my pen. Ink splashed on the carpet. It took me a moment before I realised what I had done, and when I had, I let out a curse as I attempted to clean it up.

Holmes was smiling at me. I wondered whether this was some sort of joke, that he was mocking me for something. I expected the next word he said to be the punchline. A cruel one, but I would laugh. I needed a laugh, for this all felt a little too… real.

I sat up in my chair, placed my pen in its holder and closed my book, busying myself so I would not have to meet Holmes’ amused gaze.

“Watson.” He said. I paused. “What has you in a flurry?”

“Nothing. Nothing, Holmes. I just do not follow what you mean.”

Holmes chuckled, peering down at his lap.

“As brilliant as you may think me, Watson, I cannot compare myself to you. You are deserving of better than this world has to offer. That is what I am referring to when I say that no woman, nor man, would be good enough. Not even myself.”

“Nonsense!” I practically squeaked. My face felt hot. I hoped it was only the warmth of the fire, and not a blush of colour from his words. “What makes you think I am so deserving?”

“Because you are.” Holmes said plainly, “What makes you think I am deserving?”

“That doesn’t matter!” I cried, “I don’t understand. First you tell me that I should marry Mary, then you tell me that she is not good enough, nor is anyone else on this earth, not even you.” I swallowed as I said that last, “What am I to make of that?”

“Deduce, Watson.”

Was all he could say, before again turning in his chair, closing his eyes once more, and falling back into the depths of his mind, as though that was the end of the conversation.

I was left, mouth open, mind swimming, utterly confused and strangely emotional, as though someone had rejected my sincerest feeling and walked out of the room to let me mull over it in my own misery. I could not leave it like that, and yet I could not bring myself to say anything. Still nothing made sense. 

Having lost my voice, I engaged another part of my body. I leant over and poked him in the arm. He woke slowly, as though he had fallen asleep in the short stretch of silence. Then, as I drew my hand away, he seemed a-rush with energy. He reached out and grasped my wrist. It was a quick and forceful action, and yet he held me gently. He used me to stabilise himself as he twisted about and sat the wrong way in the chair, facing the back pillows. Once he had settled, he moved his hand downwards to hold mine.

There is something about holding hands, is there not? It is so intimate a touch. You grasp a man by the wrist or take his arm while walking the street. You touch his back to guide him, and grip his shoulder to move him, but touching hands is entirely a different act. It seemed to link us both. It prevented me from asking what I had planned to, perhaps because I had realised what he had meant.

It was no secret that I loved Sherlock Holmes. He was a great friend and man, and I felt honoured to be considered his companion. I often felt loved by him too, and I got the impression that he loved no one else in the entire world. But in this moment, I was quite sure. This was his way of giving me his opinion of my idea.

I wasn’t Mary’s. I was his.

My mood softened. You see, I liked not being in the dark. I relied heavily upon Holmes to explain matters to me, and he obliged. And when, on those occasions that he offered me the chance to practice my deductive skills, he rarely gave me things too out of my depth. In this case, it was not above me. In fact, he was playing into my hands. Holmes was the cool, rationing machine, an expert in logic and reason. I, on the other hand, was an expert in the emotional. Love was a man’s motive to Holmes. To me, it was a part of my life. I should have recognised it when I saw it.

Now, I saw it, and I think Holmes saw in me that realisation. He smiled and let go of my hand, and heaved himself onto his feet. He stretched like a black cat, all dressed in a well-fitting three-piece. He smoothed his hair back and strode towards his room.

I sat back in my chair, looking at the narrow gap left by the ajar door, and when I saw one of Holmes’ bright blue eyes peeking back at me, I rose and followed him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A smutty extra chapter. Please forgive me...

“Watson.”

I entered Holmes’ bedroom as I had done many a time before. It was not alien to me. It was as natural and comfortable to me as my own rooms. But the pretense of my entering had me nervous. I am not ashamed to say it. I had my hands clasped together tightly to comfort myself. Holmes gestured for me to shut the door. I did so quietly. I do not know what I feared so greatly. Who was there to hear the door close, and who would think anything of it? I knew not.

Then, of course, I met Holmes’ gaze. I had been in more difficult situations than this with him. I had stared down the barrel of a gun. I had stood on the precipice of a waterfall with him. I had been in the most dangerous, sad, emotional, infuriating and frightening situations and had looked into my friend’s eyes and knew I was safe. I knew once more that I was. I had nothing to fear.

“I judge by your hesitation that you have not done anything of this kind prior?” He asked me.

“Obviously not.” I replied with a short laugh, “Have you?”

I doubt I expected Holmes to give me a proper answer. He smirked. His eyes twinkled. He looked away a moment, then looked back, and held out a hand. Shyly- the shyest I have ever been- I took it and let him draw me closer to him. I did not know what to make of that. For as well as I knew my friend, there were the odd occasions when his familiar expressions and characteristic manners stumped me. I could not decipher this one way or another.

It did not change my trust in him. I did not care if he had the experience or not. His confidence and trust in me was enough.

“Holmes,” I whispered, “I want you to know that the world is unworthy of you. No man, nor woman is deserving enough of you.”

He chuckled, without averting his eyes from me for even a moment.

“Oh but Watson, I don’t desire all the world. The only soul I wish to deserve is you. So I ask you now, will you stay with me this night?”

“You needn’t have asked.” I insisted. Already I was drawn towards him until we were so close our bodies flushed together, and he wrapped his long fingers around my hand. Then, once all the words that we needed to have shared were spoken, Holmes brought up his free hand and traced his index finger along my jaw. It was so intimate and tender a touch I could hardly recognise the man who touched me. I’m ashamed to say I blushed and looked away as though the sight and sensation scared me.

Holmes was not frightened. Or if he was, I could not tell. For the next movement he went to make was to tilt my chin upwards and claim my mouth with his own.It was a big moment, that in which our lips met for the very first time, but to me, it felt as natural as anything we had ever done. It did send electric pulses of excitement rush through me, like a great build-up had finally come to its perfect conclusion, and yet at the same time, it was nothing at all, nothing worth the fanfare. It felt as though we had always done it, always displayed our feelings in such a way.

Holmes’ kiss was gentle and reserved. It reminded me much of the atmosphere when he indulged in his infernal vices. It was reserved and precise, yet intense and unpredictable. I felt as though I was indulging in it too, finally joining him for a seven percent solution of cocaine. The metaphor continues, as I would never have taken such a forbidden step were it not for him.

Soon, the hand beneath my chin fell to my neck, rested there a short while, before finding a place upon my hip. These deliberate movements encouraged to me to touch him back. All this while the only I had permitted myself was to curl my own fingers around his and kiss him back. That is all. Now, however, I was given the cue, and though I felt awfully shy, I brought my own free hand up and rested it against his chest. As our kiss intensified, I found myself clinging to him, grasping the fabric of his jacket, and the waistcoat and white shirt beneath it. I longed in that moment to discard such cumbersome garments, but I would not rush things. I cared not if this was the first of many, or the only opportunity for such things, I would treat it as though I would never be gifted the same perfect circumstance again.

And, I was also too nervous to instigate matters.

Holmes was not. I did not wish to assume that he had done anything akin to this before, but there were instances such as this that made me wonder. He swiftly, while still kissing me, unfastened the two jacket buttons I had done up, and carefully threaded the garment off my arms. We let it fall to the ground and pool there. Though I was a man who took care of my clothes and prided myself on being well-dressed, this moment was more important to me than the state of my attire. When Holmes removed my waistcoat next, I gave not a thought to the crumpled and creased mess it became on the ground. It certainly did not matter to me, as Holmes was guiding me towards his bed.

Unmade and messy, the single bed creaked quietly under the weight of us two men as we sat upon it. I sat beside Holmes, readjusting my position in such a way that I could continue kissing him, but not agitate my leg wound from the awkward seating positon. We did not last too long like this, side by side as though we were in a Hansom. No, Holmes stood up once more, finally breaking the kiss, and after removing both his jacket and black waistcoat, climbed upon my lap. You may not think this was much better for my leg, but I do not think, if it did hurt, I felt it at all. The weight of the taller, but leaner man bearing down upon me was so delicious and ignited such a sensation that I could feel nothing but the areas in which his body touched mine. His torso which pressed against mine, the underside of his thighs weighing upon the top side of mine, his arms wrapped about my shoulders and neck and his lips which had once again found their way to mine.

And this time, the kiss had once again deepened again. I was convinced this Holmes had done before. But I could scarcely believe it, in a way. He parted my lips and…I turned my head more and pulled Holmes closer to me. Like this, he could be closer, and closer, and yet it did not seem enough. I wanted to feel every part of him. I may have held him as tight as I could, but it was not tight enough. Finally, I had done away with my nervousness to touch him. I still was not entirely confident in my actions, I merely no longer feared placing my hands upon him. I longed to do so.

It is strange. For a man in such ill health much of the time, and as thin as he was, he was powerful. He often looked as though he could be snapped in half by a man of my size, and yet I was sure he could do the same to someone twice that. He pushed me back gently and lay me upon the bed, sitting on top of me in the most vulgar and unexplainable manners. He removed his lips from mine and set about unbuttoning my shirt. I watched his pale hands move in the low light of the room. They caught the silver shine of the moonlight, seeping in through a narrow space in the curtains, hung over the window.

“Watson,” His voice was barely above a whisper. I could not bring myself to take my eyes off his hands. They had moved lower, lower peeling away at my shirt and the white undershirt beneath it, leaving my chest and stomach exposed. They now sat at the waistband of my trousers, the tips of his fingers feathering my stomach. “I ask you again if this is what you desire.”

My mind was so filled with apprehension, desire, all manner of thoughts and emotions that I could not understand what he was asking of me. Not at first. But I cannot deny that I was making certain assumptions. Hastily, I nodded. I was sure of nothing, of course, not even the sound of my own voice, yet I knew that I wanted to make Holmes mine. I could not in any traditional sense. I could not make it known about the world that no man nor woman could come between us, but I was not interested in what the world thought of us. I wanted to claim my friend and have it known between us that we were solely one another’s.

So I watched as Holmes’ skilful fingers unbuttoned my fly and I started on his shirt. At one point, he took my hand and brought it up to his lips. He kissed my knuckles, staring down at my chest as he did so, as though deep in thought about this action. When again he let my hand fall and go about removing his clothes, he paused for a moment before slipping his own hands into my trousers. He waited until I was too distracted to see him doing so. But I tell you, I felt it.

At first, it was as though all the wind had been knocked out of me. My hips thrust upwards involuntarily, my stomach tensed. I looked up at Holmes to see him smirking. He met my gaze and hushed me.

“You might not want to be too loud, Watson. I doubt you would wish to be discovered in this situation.” He warned. I nodded my head, telling him to continue. He understood, burying his hand deeper into my undergarments and stroking me through the fabric. The friction and feel of straining beneath them, as I soon was, was so heady I had forgone all other activities to surrender to it. Holmes seemed not to mind. When next I opened my eyes, having realised my lack of contribution, I was met with the sight of my friend shirtless.

This was not the first time. Holmes, in all his bohemian traits, was not a man who particularly took privacy seriously at home. Not that he would walk around the place entirely undressed, but he had the habit of leaving his door open when dressing, if he was dressing in a rush. He had even done so in the presence of clients before, perhaps without realising. So I had seen the almost translucent tone of his skin, the shadow tossed over his visible ribs, the look of his chest, shoulders, neck. I had seen it before. But never like this. And never had I been close enough to it to touch.

He was looking thin. I remember thinking that. It was a silly thing to think, of course, in that moment. But as I say, I was not thinking clearly. My heart was pounding so hard in my chest, sending every ounce of blood downwards. I was wracked with pleasure and… there was another emotion, mingled with that. A deep, intense one I cannot name. Together these two feelings had me muted. I could not quite believe this was all happening.

And to make matters even more unbelievable, I watched as Holmes drew me out of my undergarments. His eyes were fixated on me. I burned with embarrassment and shame. I know not why. Or I did. I could not fathom the idea that I was on display for Holmes, and that he was taking such an interest.

If I had said he had any interest at all of this nature, I would not have said it was men he was particularly fond of. I could scarcely convince myself that he had any affection for women, but Irene Adler had such a damning effect on him, I assumed if he was in some way inclined, it would be that way. But I could not see him having any sexual preference at all, so I found it as fascinating as I did arousing to see him looking at me, with a curious, wild look in his eyes. It was loving and tender, and base and filthy all at once. I could not look at myself in that moment. I looked at him instead. He brought me so much comfort when the world could provide nothing else and the expression on his handsome face then comforted me that I had nothing to worry about. Not with myself, I mean. I was not being judged or scrutinised or studied.

I felt I had something to worry about when I friend leapt to his feet and stepped over to his chest of draws. There, as he shed his trousers and underwear and stood in the low light, shimmering like a ghostly apparition, he fumbled in the mess in there to retrieve a pot of something. A lotion or an oil of some description. Turning back around, I now had a full view of him. He too was aroused. I doubted I had ever seen him in such a state. If I had, I had ignored it, writing it off as a perfectly normal bodily function that cannot be helped, even by the most disciplined of minds, or I had convinced myself I had not seen anything at all. I could not convince myself of that now. My heart thundered as the man approached me, my hands shaking as he handed me the tub. I knew at once what this meant, and I tell you, as a doctor, it worried me.

“Holmes.” I squeaked.

“Hush, my dear friend. I will need some preparation, but I will not ask…”

“I don’t mind helping you Holmes. You certainly need this, but are you sure?”

“Are you not?”

“Forget the implications of such an act,” I breathed, “It is violent and dangerous, is it not?”

I was not expecting for Holmes to smile at that. He took the tub from me, lay it next to my shoulder and lowered himself down so that he could kiss me again. He rested his forehead on my own and looked into my eyes through his lashes.

Calmly, he said, “I am glad to have you as my doctor. But I am sure you have heard of this before. Surely you can assume the same as me, that if it were not so enjoyable, people would not risk ruination for it. If done correctly, which I trust you will assist me with, I will be in no danger. You will help me, will you not, Watson?”

Again, I lost my breath. I choked and spluttered to reply to him, but all that I managed was an agreement. I would help him. I worried. I was not sure that I had the knowledge necessary to keep him safe, but it was in this moment, like many others, that his confidence inspired some in me. He sat up, still straddled over my legs, and placed the pot on my stomach. It was cold and made me flinch, but he seemed to find that amusing too. Giving him a dirty look, I then watched him coat his fingers in the lotion and prepare himself with it. As he did so, small sounds escaped his mouth, sounds I had never heard him make in my entire time living with him. Sounds that were desperate, wanton, base. His eyes would flutter shut and brow knot as, I assumed, pleasure rushed through him.

He then took me again. His hands were slick with whatever concoction was in that pot, and I tell you, it felt quite pleasurable being stroked over my sensitive skin. I found myself thrusting up into Holmes’ hands as he coated me in the stuff. When finally he had drawn me far too close to climax, he desisted and stood up a little higher on his knees. He repositioned over my hips and took hold of me. He pressed me towards his entrance.

Between my fascination with the blissful pleasure on his face and my own medical curiosity, I could not take my eyes off him. My hands were balled into fists at my side, letting him use me, letting him guide me into him. He lowered himself slowly, slowly, the further he got, the quicker his breath came, and louder. He hissed through his teeth at times, let out a sharp exhale at others. And though he seemed to quiver desperately and tensely around me, he went slowly. Painfully slow. I mean, it was a feeling like no other. I would not say I was inexperienced in carnal relations myself, but this I was entirely new to and it was... well as I think about it, I have used every positive adjective in the English language to describe it. I cannot think of any more.

It was not only the feeling of him around me, me inside him, it was his reaction. Never had I seen him give over himself to something in this way before. Music, yes, cases, of course, those terrible narcotics, unfortunately so, but pleasure? There was such an intensity to it.

Finally, the tightness had eased, he moved more freely on me. Already I was close and could have finished easily with his hand. It took much of my willpower and force not to cut this short. But he paused. It was wonderful, to take a moment and feel him, but I would not finish from it. He paused and took one of my hands.

“Hold me, Watson.” He said, his voice calm but tense. It threatened to break, to break into a growl or howl like an animal. But ever the one to control his wildness, it did not. I obeyed, grasping his hips. And with that, I supported him as he moved. It was with that that I could not hold back. I thrust up into him and helped him move in tandem. He rode me almost to the point of climax, then suddenly flipped us over. My legs almost gave out as I rose to my knees. I shivered and shook, canting my hips without control. Holmes pulled me close. He buried his face in my neck and wrapped his arms around me. I held him tight as we climaxed together, him first, then me.

And we stayed like that for a time. I would have probably gotten off him sooner, lay by his side and held him through the night, but he would not let me go, not for a good long time. He did not move his head from my shoulder, and locked his arms around my back. My own arms, which I’d threaded under his neck, were beginning to go numb. My legs felt weak, and took ages to recover, by which time, Holmes took in a deep breath and said, “Watson, have you something to wipe ourselves up with?”

I took that to mean I had to find something. Unsteadily, I stood and wandered out of the room. When I returned with some tissue and a wet cloth, he had recoiled into himself. He had somehow retrieved his dressing gown from where ever it had been, and he sat against the wall, curled up like a cat.

None the less, he did not seem unhappy. A smile twinkled in his eyes. Though I feared I had lost our intimacy for the night, I was sure I could get it back. A gentle hand on his thigh brought him back to me.

“Here.”

“Thank you, Watson.”

“Come here, my dear friend.” I told him, and snaked an arm around my back. Though he looked unsure, he soon turned towards me. I sat up upon his bed and he lay over my lap. I lay a hand on his head and stroked his hair, which was wet with sweat. I too had perspired a little. I still had yet to catch my breath. Holmes, on the other hand, with all the stamina in the world, was breathing as deeply and calmly as though he was drifting off to sleep.

In fact, he was.


End file.
